


Statistics and Kitchenware Analogies

by itdefiesimagination



Series: Statistics and Kitchenware Analogies [1]
Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-04-20 13:25:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4788887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itdefiesimagination/pseuds/itdefiesimagination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"That’s how good-looking people dress, Simon. They cover themselves up so you have to work harder to get their clothes off. Otherwise, everyone would want to sleep with them <em>all the time</em>. It’s like a filter to see who’s willing to put in the effort.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arsonist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arsonist/gifts).



> Okay, so this is weird, but Kit made a tumblr post a while back about wanting a hacktivist!Simon Monroe fic. I don't know if they remember that post, but I do, and have since spawned this (potentially unfortunate) AU. 
> 
> HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MY FRIEND. 
> 
> PS The office setting here is based off of the one episode of 'Mr. Robot' I've seen. In case anyone's wondering.  
> (*disembodied shout from the back* WE WEREN'T.)  
> ("WELL, THANKS FOR MAKING ME FEEL GOOD, HARRIET.")

“They’re going to kill him, Simon.”

A beat. Then: 

“Simon, he’s going to _die_.”

Amy was nearly standing now – she hovered just above her chair, knees only the slightest bit bent, leaning at a dangerous angle so as to see beyond Simon’s desk and into the next patch of cubicles. The way she was craning her neck hung her hair at a 90 degree angle and, though Simon knew with one hundred percent certainty that she was going to fall over (again), he made no move to stop her, instead refocusing on his monitor. Fate does as fate will. If she went down, everyone in the office would hear it, and Amy would be neither embarrassed nor apologetic. Simon knew this, because it’d happened before. Three times. 

Atif was the first (tall, willowy Atif with buzzed hair and a fundamental misunderstanding of basic, basic coding.)

Jason was the second (fired after just three days; strong personality . . . strong tendency to physically and verbally intimidate fellow employees with spectacular, fisticuff result.) 

Sandra, the most recent and the longest lasting of the new employees, had captivated Amy’s attention for three weeks. There were rumors – started and perpetuated by Amy, heard and tolerated by Simon – that Sandra chewed on power cables when she was stressed. It was said – again, by Amy, to Simon – that Sandra preferred the green cables, because, quote, everyone knows red paint has lead in it, and blue . . . well, who wants to eat a blue power cord?

(“Who wants to eat a _green_ power cord?” Simon had asked, only half disbelieving the story. Sandra had been let go under mysterious circumstances, after all. And two of his extensions cords were missing – both of them green.) 

(“If I had to eat power cords, I would definitely eat the green ones. They just look like they’d taste the best. I can’t explain it. I won’t explain it to you, Simon.”)

(“ _Had_ to eat power cords? Look, I don’t think she had to eat them. I think the stress around here just gets to people’s heads, sometimes. Especially if they’re new, like Sandra was.” Simon snapped his mouth shut then, squinting at Amy, who had busied herself rearranging the knick-knacks on her desk. “Not that I believe that story," he corrected. "I . . . don’t believe that story.”)

(“It’s not my fault your desk faces the way it faces. You had your back to her for three weeks. _I_ know the truth.”)

(“. . . Gross.”) 

Three times Amy had fallen from her chair attempting to get a glimpse of a new employee’s antics. Make that three times and counting, apparently. They should really swap desks, Simon thought. His work space faced a small kitchenette, located for convenience just off the main office. Other than the fact that he’d seen Kenneth walk into the kitchen, then out of the kitchen, then back into the kitchen seven times in the last half hour, nothing all that exciting went on in Simon’s line of sight. Certainly nothing worth falling out of your chair for.

“Oh my god, management’s going to kill him. Simon!”

“That’s terrible,” Simon said, voice flat. 

“Isn’t it, though? Oh my god. Oh my _god_ , I’m in love. He’s so _tragically_ beautiful,” Amy swooned, her voice a few decibels louder than could be considered office appropriate. Employees at neighboring desks glanced in her direction, but said nothing. “Beautiful,” she continued. “So sad he’ll be dead soon.”

“Amy.”

“Are you watching this?" she asked, incredulous. "It’s so fantastic. I don’t think he even knows what a computer is.”

“Highly doubtful.” Simon raised his eyebrows, but kept his eyes trained on his monitor, fingers typing away ceaselessly. 

Amy’s mouth dropped open. “And now he’s powering down the desktop, oh my goodness, wow.”

“Amy. Stop.” 

“Do you think we should help him?”

Finally, Simon tore his eyes away from his screen, if only to glare at Amy over the top of his monitor. She didn’t seem to notice he’d stopped typing, so he sighed resignedly and prepared to don the traditional robes of Office Buzzkill (operating hours: 8 AM to 5:30 PM with a 45 minute break for lunch and a short interval, sometime between 3 PM and 4, when everyone was allowed ten minutes of unsupervised, unprofessional fun. No, nine minutes . . . no, eight minutes. Seven. Seven minutes of fun.) 

Voice low, Simon began, “I think either he secretly knows what he’s doing, or he’ll figure it out. Or they’ll sack him, and you’ll be upset about it, and I’ll have to comfort you, and I’ll get even less work done than usual. And I think you shouldn’t stare. You’ll make it worse.” 

Amy gave a comic scowl in his direction, plopping back down into her chair. “Wow. Tell us how you really feel, Mr. Science.” 

“Amy, you do this every time we get a new person in the office and, frankly, it’s getting on my n -- ” 

Before he could finish, Amy leaped back out of her chair and crouched slightly behind her desk, half to avoid being seen by the target of her fascination, half for dramatic effect. 

“He’s got an aux cord!!” she said in a forceful half-whisper. She squinted and leaned forward. “At least I think it’s an aux cord. Don’t know what he’s doing with it. He’s . . . he’s just holding it. And looking at it. He’s just sitting there, staring at an aux cord! Oh.” Amy put a hand to her heart. “Oh, death. That most Finite of Infinites. It comes for us all, but he’s so _young_.” 

“Don’t – ! ”

“You will be missed, fair stranger!”

“Amy! For god’s sake,” Simon snapped, then recoiled when Amy glowered down at him. They stared at one another in tense silence for a moment, before he held his hands up and spoke again, softer this time. “Just . . . let’s take a step back from this precipice, alright?” 

Amy took a breath, crossed her arms. “I love the newbies. I love them,” she huffed, her eyes still focused halfway across the office. 

“I know you do,” Simon said. 

“But I love this one especially. He’s sooo fired, though, it’s hilarious. I give him three days . . . no, two. So best get a good look at him now. He’s limited edition and _gorgeous._ ”

“Don’t care.” Simon had once again zeroed in on his computer screen; his lips were pursed in stock photo nonchalance. 

“Sure you don’t,” Amy teased. 

They stared at one another for a moment. Somewhere, a printer whirred. 

“Ugh, _fine_.” _Jesus Christ._ Simon rolled his eyes (partly at Amy, partly at himself) and twisted to look over his shoulder.

. . . . 

Alright. 

So this kid really was staring at an aux cord, staring like he was afraid the thing would anthropomorphize and try to kill him if left to its own devices. Obviously, an aux cord has never done this. Obviously. What an idiot, Simon thinks. What an . . . 

The boy looked up from the cord, eyeing the rest of the office furtively, only letting himself breathe when he realized that most everyone was too absorbed in their own work to notice that he’d done nothing but stop and restart his modem for the last 25 minutes. He folded his hands, refolded his hands, unfolded his hands, and looked generally uncomfortable. Finally, he slumped down in his seat, defeated. 

Simon noticed some other things about him, too. For example, his wrists looked breakable, not in a sickly way, rather in the same way a nice plate, or glass stemware, looks breakable. You don’t doubt its ability to hold together, but it’s an undeniable rush, handling something so delica – 

_What?_

What was that? Did he just make a . . . kitchenware analogy? Horrible.

Suddenly, a voice ghosted against Simon’s ear, jolting him back to attention. 

“I think he’s a model,” Amy whispered, like a conspiracy. 

“I think he’s a teenager,” Simon whispered back. The words came spikier than he intended -- the pin-points of heat slowly moving up his neck and across his face making it hard to control his tone, or to talk at all, or to think. “And why is he wearing seven shirts?” he added, too sharply. 

“Because he’s fashionable. That’s how good-looking people dress, Simon. They cover themselves up so you have to work harder to get their clothes off. Otherwise, everyone would want to sleep with them _all the time_. It’s like a filter to see who’s willing to put in the effort,” Amy said. 

“I’m only wearing one shirt.” Simon glanced toward his button down. 

“Uh, yeah . . . how ‘bout that?”

“Thank you. So much,” Simon said, locking eyes with her over his screen. 

“I’m joking,” Amy placated. She slumped back down into her desk chair and kicked off with one foot to set herself spinning. “You are a decent looking young man . . .,” she began, one fourth of the way round, then one half, then three fourths, then facing Simon again: “. . . in search of another decent looking young man.” 

“Alright. If you say so.”

Amy planted her feet to halt the chair and stared Simon down, head on. “Oh, I _definitely_ say so.” 

“. . . .” Simon stared over his monitor.

“. . . .” Amy stared back over hers. 

“No.” 

“Yes. In fact – ”

Simon closed his eyes and wondered when the ache between his eyes and nose would burst to a full migraine. “Don’t.”

“In fact, there’s a decent looking young man over there who seems to be having a lot of trouble with his computer,” Amy said, using one foot to sway her chair back and forth, while the other tapped on top of her knee. 

“Amy.” Simon refused to meet her gaze, but his peripheral caught her boot moving restlessly. 

“You know who’s good with computers?” Amy asked. 

“Uh, literally everyone here?” 

“ _You’re_ good with computers. You do all that – what’s that stuff you do?”

“There's this group I work with -- er, for. Sometimes, we take down entire malicious databases."

"Nerdy." 

"Other times, it’s a matter of corrupting code so some of the shadier sites go offline for a few hours, which is usually enough to cause a bit of havoc. It's for a good cause, though, the people we hit are usually extortionists. Or dirty politicians. Bad people. Here, day job’s just . . . .I.T.,” he trails off, his enthusiasm fading over the course of the sentence. He shrugs, returns to typing. 

“Yep. Sounds just as creepy and boring as the first time you told me,” Amy said on an exhale, her elbows on the desk, chin resting on her hands “Oh my god, incredibly creepy, incredibly boring. Hey, you know who’d love that creepy, boring story?”

“So not happening.” 

Glaring, Amy slides her elbows off the table and grips the arms of her chair. “Look, I’m giving him up out of the goodness of my heart. You think I couldn’t woo that boy with my hitherto unheard of genetic-perfection-slash-hyper-intelligence? Please, Simon. Take my charity, or die alone.” 

“Are those my only two options?”

“Yes, they are.”

“Great, I’ll see you at the funeral,” Simon said without raising his head from the monitor. 

“No!” Amy propelled herself (‘propelled’ meaning, in this case, pushed a desk chair with her feet, slowly and painstakingly) over to Simon’s side of the desk to clap emphatically in his face. "No, no, no! This is once in a lifetime!" 

“He’ll be gone in three days tops, Amy, you said it yourself. Anyway, he’s not interested,” Simon mumbled.

“You haven’t even spoken yet!” Amy threw her hands out, incensed. 

“Just – just statistically,” Simon floundered. “He’s not interested.”

“Seriously? You’re playing the statistics card? With me?” 

“You know what I meant.”

Amy makes a face of disbelief. 

“May I remind you that, _statistically_ , I’m not even supposed to be around?" she fixed him with a glare, only half-serious. Simon shrank back. "And yet here I am! Stuck here with you and your statistics and your,” she squints, waves a hand in Simon’s direction, “heteronormativity. Which, frankly, is ironic.” 

Simon disregarded the insult, thinking instead, despite himself, of a phone call he'd received a few months back. Probably a _year_ back, now. He'd never understood that call, still didn't, because he and Amy hadn't been friends at the time. The extent of their relationship had been cross-desk: she working enthusiastically, animatedly in marketing and sales, he working, just . . . working, in tech. She'd offered to bring him coffee once, but he'd refused, falling back on his own brand of politeness -- misconstrued by many as the exact opposite. The exchange of numbers had been the definition of a formality (to Simon, at least), so hearing her voice on the other end of the line was a surprise. 

("Hey, it's Amy. Work Amy." )

("Of course, yeah." Simon held the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he cleared the plates left over from dinner. He'd eaten alone and hadn't minded. "Hey. Hi." ) 

There was silence over the line, then:

("So, this might seem . . . weird," Amy said, her voice uncharacteristically small.)

("Uh, no. No, go ahead.")

("So. . . " There was some background commotion, wheels over tile, rattling metal, before Amy continued, "Sorry, would you be able to come pick me up?")

( _What? Why him?_ "Um," Simon said, glancing toward the clock over his stove. Red numbers, digital face faded by late afternoon sunlight, hard to read: 5:46 PM. Alright. "Yeah. Sure. Where are you?")

("Chorley and South Ribble. Preston Road.")

("Got it. 15 minutes," he said. This would his reparation for not taking that coffee.)

So he was there in 17 minutes, surprised to learn that 'there' wasn't a house, or a bar, but a hospital. He parked in the lot closest to the door -- it was nearly empty -- and dialed Amy's number again. 

("Hey," she answered, breathless. Simon felt his pulse quicken and wondered why he was afraid. There was nothing to be afraid of.)

("Hi, I . . . " he faltered, realizing that he hadn't actually thought of a question. After a moment's hesitation, he settled on, "Is there somewhere I can find you?")

("Third floor. One of the elevators is broken. My room's right across from that one.")

Simon thanked her and hung up. 

After that, she was easy to find. Her room smelled heavily of antiseptic, though there were no medical supplies in sight -- the space was bare, but for the usual hospital trimmings (bed, flatscreen from 2007, more salmon colored fabric than one hopes to see in a lifetime); Amy's purse perched on the window ledge, Amy perched next to it, her feet hanging off the edge of the bed. 

Simon saw all of this from just beyond the threshold. Shoulders hunched, he took a step into the room, and Amy's attention turned to him. She didn't speak, but waved with her fingers. 

("Shouldn't someone be in here with you?" was all Simon could think to say in response.)

("They think I've already left. I told them I'd be out in a few minutes.")

("How long's it been?")

("About an hour.")

(Simon felt an irrational guilt wash over him. It creased his forehead and forced his hands deeper into his pockets. "You should've called sooner," he said. "It's no issue, really.")

("Ah," Amy smiled, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. It sounded as though she'd meant to continue, to correct him, but she did not and Simon didn't ask.)

Amy refused help into or out of the elevator; she crossed the lobby on her own; she didn't stop to lean against the glass building front, and she wouldn't let Simon open the passenger side door for her. All of this set Simon on edge.

("A gentleman!" Amy appraised him up and down, arms crossed, nodding slightly and with real appreciation before clicking the door open herself. "Contrary to popular belief, though, women _can_ open things. Except for those packages with the weird plastic ties. And that has nothing to do with gender, it's just that no one can open those." She ducked inside the car.)

("Sorry," said Simon, following suit. His door slammed shut.) 

The sun was nearly down by the time the made it to the main road. It was dark inside the car. They drove in silence, with Amy giving occasional directions back to her apartment. Or maybe it was her house. Simon wasn't sure. 

He jumped when Amy spoke up for the first time. 

("I might need you to drive me back to the hospital tomorrow. My car's still in the lot," she said.)

(Without thinking, Simon turned his head to stare at her."Then why did you -- no -- sorry," he began, but shut himself up, returning his eyes to the road.)

("Why did I ask you to come get me?" Amy laughed softly at his self-censoring. "I wasn't in any state to drive. Probably would've crashed. Just my luck.") 

("Are you -- sorry -- are you ill, or?" Simon head turned furtively, once, twice, alternating between Amy and the road. "You don't have to answer. It's none of my business.") 

("I've got Leukemia. Apparently. They say four months.") 

("Fuck!" Simon said, on impulse, because _what the hell?_ He grasped the steering wheel harder, lowering his voice to a condolence when he noticed that Amy was staring at him, open mouthed. "That's terrible. I'm sorry.")

("Why? You didn't do it.")

They drove for a few more miles, saying nothing. The dark offered a safety net -- a silence made socially acceptable by the fact that they couldn't see one another. Amy's phone glowed bright, though. The radio wasn't on. Trees loomed on either side of the road, their branches black silhouettes on dark blue. 

("You don't seem . . . too upset," Simon said, after what seemed like a long while.)

("Oh, yeah. Well, obviously, I'm just jazzed about it.")

("Sorry.") 

("No," Amy waved him off. "No, it's fine. I've been feeling just god awful for a while now, so this isn't as much of a surprise as it could've been.") 

("I wouldn't have guessed. You always seem so . . ." Simon let the sentence die.)

(Unconsciously rapping her knuckles against the window, Amy laughed, "Yeah, well some of us don't have the luxury of moping around all the time.") 

Simon opened his mouth to speak, closed it, stared pointedly at the road in front of him. 

(Amy must've read his body language, because she reassured, "That wasn't a dig at you, by the way. I really do like you. I mean, I like working across from you.") 

("Thanks.")

("Yeah, well. Thanks for picking me up.") 

. . . . 

Amy's four months had been up seven months ago. In that time, Simon had driven her back to pick up her car, accepted coffee once and gotten it for the both of them every time after that; he'd gone with her to her treatments, because no one else would and because he'd wanted to, she'd had him over for dinner, she'd had him over to her grandmother's for dinner ("No, he's not my boyfriend, Nan. (. . .) No, he isn't my husband, either. He's actually _incredibly_ gay! (. . .) I know, right?! (. . .) Yeah! (. . .) No, me neither! Could you pass the dressing?") They'd become friends. Simon couldn't speak for her, but she was probably his best friend. 

And now she was pounding on his desk. 

"So, look, if I can beat an incurable illness out of sheer will power, you can flirt with an attractive man. _God_ , I wish I had your problems," Amy sighed. 

“Your magical survival story is in no way equivalent to the statistical frequency of queer men in England. That is the falsest of false analogies.”

“Simon," Amy rolled her chair as close to his desk as it would go and dropped her voice to an artificial quaver. "Simon, I’m dying and my last wish is for you to go help Aux Cord with his computer issues, of which I’m assuming there are many.” 

“What? Amy – !” Simon executed one last, heavy command on his keyboard before dropping his hands and turning to give her his full attention. “First, don’t say you’re dying. Second, don’t . . . just . . . never call anyone that ever again. Third, _no_.” 

“I just want to see my only son married before I go," Amy fake-wheezed, reaching for Simon's hands with her own. She took them limply and shook. "Do it. Do it for me.”

Simon looked at her, looked over to where the new kid was watching his job flash before his eyes, looked back at her. With a loud exhale, he turned off his monitor and made to stand. The sounds Amy made were unintelligible. 

“Shhhh, _fine_ ," Simon put his hands out to quiet her before standing to his full height. "But we're no longer on speaking terms."

“Thank god, because I actually despise you and was getting tired of listening to you say words, infrequent as they are," she said, her grin wicked. 

Simon turned so that he was walking backwards, facing her. “I’m uncomfortable with this." 

“Ha. You wouldn’t do it if you didn’t want to.”

Simon groaned, and set off toward the other end of the office.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I said this would be updated in 'oh, you know, a couple of days.' As that didn't turn out to be true, I'll be punishing myself by responding to all future, time-based questions with 'oh, you know, a couple of days.' 
> 
> "You're 30 minutes late! When are you getting here?!"  
> "Oh, you know, a couple of days."  
> "Tell me, doctor . . . how long do I have?"  
> "Oh, you know, a couple of days."
> 
> TLDR; I'm sorry for the major delay, and I hope that you enjoy the rest of this Gay Story (TM).

“Hey,” said Simon. 

_Hey_. A perfectly normal thing for a perfectly normal person to say, but to Simon’s ears it sounded too loud and too soft at the same time. Impossible for a word to be both too loud and too soft, but he knows what he hears. And what kind of asshole says ‘hey’, anyway? What kind? What kind?! 

Fortunately, the kid hadn’t noticed any kind of asshole saying anything at all. He stared into space. 

“Hi . . .” Aux Cord said, dreamily. Dreamily like one of those weird dreams, though – you know, the dreams where you’re standing in the middle of an empty warehouse while some of your old classmates stare down at you from an industrial catwalk, 40 feet above the warehouse floor. Sometimes the classmates speak. Sometimes they throw things at you. Dreamily like that specific dream. It’s a little unsettling. 

“Uh,” said Simon. The conversation had progressed past introductions, but he hadn’t. His turn to speak: “Yeah, hi. So, I saw y – ”

“Stop!” Aux Cord put a hand up, staring straight ahead. 

Simon cringed and spoke without thinking, “I will!”

“No.” The kid snapped back to himself and to their conversation. Clocking Simon’s expression, his eyes turned apologetic, but his voice stayed sharp. “Not you. Not you, sorry. That woman over there has been staring at me for, like, half an hour. I’m afraid I might’ve done something wrong.” 

Simon turned so he could follow Aux Cord’s sight line. They both stared across the room. 

Amy peered back at them over the top of her computer monitor, only her eyes visible. 

Simon felt her observation like a jolt to the heart. He narrowed his eyes in Amy’s direction, tried to mouth something that would call her off, i.e. _Oh my God!!! Stop!!!_ , while at the same time stuttering out some sort of excuse. 

“No, you haven’t done anything, she’s just - ” _Irrationally obsessed with you._ “She wears contacts. They dry out - make her look like she’s staring,” Simon lied. “That’s Amy, she’s fine.” 

“Oh.” Aux Cord didn’t sound convinced. His frown deepened – probably not the best sign, Simon thought. So he backpedaled. 

“Did you,” Simon gestured toward the aux cord in Aux Cord’s hands. (Jesus, Amy. Nickname choice: 4/10). “Did you need help with that?”

“Depends. Are you in management?” Aux Cord asked, suspicious, clutching the cord tighter. 

“No.”

“Then, oh my God, yes. Please.” 

The realization that Simon had come to help him and not to fire him flushed all of the tension from Aux Cord’s body. He slumped forward, putting his elbows on the desk and leaving his hands free to gesture emphatically. “I can’t get this monitor to turn on,” he said. 

“Right.” Simon knelt so he was eye to electronics beneath the desk. He was acutely aware of the eyes on the back of his head, and of who those eyes belonged to, and of all the other uncomfortable/irrational feelings that came as consequence. He hoped it wouldn’t take long to identify the technical issue, and it didn’t; a five second inspection revealed that the power button, smack in the center of the console, glowed yellow.

“Oh my God. You haven’t even – ” Simon stopped himself from speaking, then stopped himself from laughing. He stood to his full height. “Well, first off, your modem - the cube thing here - was still in sleep mode,” he explained. “That’s why your screen keeps powering down when you try to turn it on. S’fine, though. The buttons can be . . .” 

_Literally self-explanatory _, Simon thought.__

“. . . tricky,” Simon said. 

Without warning and with a look of absolute dread, Aux Cord slammed his hands down onto the desk once, then drew them back into his lap. “I can’t be here,” he whispered harshly, about as loud as was possible in a place like this. He breathed in, but didn’t breath out.

“Whoa – ” Simon took a step back from the boy’s desk. 

“They asked me if I knew how to do stuff like this and I panicked and said _yes_ , because they – the corporate people, or whoever – they just _look_ at you for the entire interview. Did you know they look at you? Because they stare directly at you, and, like, what are you supposed to say, right? Like, I need to be here. I need this job. What was I supposed to say? No?! Yes?! I don’t know!” 

Simon glanced around the office to see if anyone had taken notice of them, because the longer Aux Cord kept on, the louder he got. Simon put his hands up gingerly. “Okay, so – hey – don’t freak out – ”

“Like, I’m always that person who – who everyone assumes is useless. Always. Just – everyone! They think I’m incapable of doing things, but I’m not! I’m just incapable of doing _this_ thing!

“Wow. ” 

“But I need this job,” Aux Cord said. “I mean, how am I supposed to make a living? What am I supposed to eat? Paint?”

“What? No – ”

“Paint _brushes_?”

“That's . . . oddly specific.”

“Well?!” Aux Cord demanded.

“No!” said Simon, letting himself get sucked into the unexpected outburst. “No, definitely wouldn’t recommend eating those. For whatever reason.” 

“Yeah, trust me! _I don’t want to!_ ”

Simon was just about to ask what on in God’s name he was going on about when Aux Cord’s mouth snapped shut and guilt soured his features. 

A man (30s probably, office wear, blue tie) had spun his chair around and was looking at them, face blank. They looked back. 

“Hi, Pablo,” Simon smiled, awkwardly, realizing how loud their conversation must’ve been. A few seconds passed before he could think of anything to say, could think of anything that he and Pablo might have spoken about before, or might have in common. “So how do you feel about having fingers?” was the first item on that mental list. He went with the second.

“Hey, you – a couple months ago – that shady timeshare thing? Did you ever get your money back?

“No.”

“Oh,” Simon winced. “Well, fuck.”

“Yes, exactly,” Pablo said. He stared directly into Simon’s eyes for a moment. Then, his chair wheels squealed as he sidled up to his desk and resumed typing. 

Both Simon and Aux Cord were silent for a moment, refusing to look at one another, but also refusing to disengage in the middle of what had been a soul baring, if ill-timed, conversation. 

When Aux Cord finally spoke he was timid again. “I’m sorry for that. For yelling. I don’t usually yell.”

“Yeah, I figured. Was not expecting that,” said Simon. He watched the boy duck his head under the desk to power up his modem, popping back up to type a few half-hearted strokes out on his keyboard. Simon sighed, unsure if this was a victory or if he was resigning himself, “Look, I can help you with some of the basics here, if you want.” 

Aux Cord shook his head. “I don’t want to bother you.”

“It’s fine. I sorta do this for a living. Well – it’s – not,” he shut himself up before he started (continued?) to sound like a prick. “I know what goes where.”

He shifted gears, mostly because he couldn’t do it, couldn’t take it anymore. “Hey, sorry, but I gotta ask. Is there a reason you’re holding that?” 

“This?” Aux Cord asked, holding up his nicknamesake. “I pulled it out when I was trying to get the monitor to turn on. I don’t know why I thought pulling a cord _out_ would turn anything _on_. I – I’m not an idiot, I promise.” 

“I believe you,” Simon said, genuine. Then, in hopes of learning something about this kid that hadn’t already been shouted at him: “What _are_ you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“. . . What?” Aux Cord asked, because the question made no sense outside of Simon’s head. Like how blood’s a different color in the vein than out in the air. Cut yourself on something, and it’s red when you might’ve expected blue. Ask a question, and it’s shit when you might’ve expected better of yourself. 

“Well, you’re obviously not here because you’re good at office administration,” Simon clarified, but _sure. Insult him. Good move, genius._

“No,” Simon shook his head. Tried again. “No. Sorry. I just meant – you’re probably good at something else. What are you good at?” 

He imagined plunging his fist into the computer screen. There had to be some live wires in there, right? If he was lucky, he’d be electrocuted instantly. The soothing embrace of death – 

“I’m an artist.” 

“Oh. That’s cool.”

“That’s embarrassing to say out loud. That’s what it is,” Aux Cord said, smiling without humor and looking down at the desk as if for something to do with his hands. 

“Why?” Simon asked. 

Aux Cord shrugged. “Back in school, when you asked someone what they wanted to do with their life and they told you they going to be some successful author, did you believe them?”

“Not generally.”

“Did you believe the ones who said they’d be in movies?” 

“No.” 

“Me neither,” Aux Cord said. “So now I’m not sure I believe myself, either.” He leaned back in his office chair, setting himself in slight, aimless motion with one foot. 

He looked down on himself, Simon noticed. Well, not physically looked down on himself. (His eyes were focused straight ahead, fixed on Simon. Simon noticed that, as well). Looked down on himself like someone up in an airplane, someone watching own life from above, critiquing their own movements as they watched, equal parts distant and very close. Simon wondered if he felt like that a lot. Then he wondered why he cared. Then wondered why he was wondering. 

Simon pointed to the computer monitor in a way that he hoped was casual – hard to do when he was painfully aware that every gesture was a choice, and that every choice he’d made so far had been disastrous. He said, “I’ll set you up here before you’re in tomorrow. It’s honestly not a problem. The system isn’t hard to figure out, after the initials, and the stuff they have me doing is mind-numbingly basic. I’ve got time.” 

Aux Cord looked conflicted. “I - ”

“Really need help?” 

“Yeah,” he said, with a nod that started slow at first then steadily gained speed. “Yes. Thanks.” 

“No problem,” Simon said, then nodded, turned to leave, had a terrible idea, turned back, and said the terrible idea out loud (a process totaling 10.34 seconds): “But I was actually - I was thinking of making some copies later.”

“. . . What?” 

“I was thinking I might – I might make some copies.” 

“Have fun?” 

“Did you want to come with? Maybe?” Simon made a vague gesture toward the copy room. “I could use the company. It’s a lot of copies.”

“Not sure if I’d be good conversation. I don’t really know you." Aux Cord's eyes dropped to his screen. 

“I mean, not a date or anything. Just copies."

At that, Aux Cord looked up again and pulled a face, confused. “Sorry?” 

“Just copies. I’m not even gay,” Simon said. 

_What?_

Aux Cord flinched at his bluntness; Simon did the same. Understandable reactions. “You’re not?” he asked, as if Simon had just told him ‘I’m not 2500 years old’ or ‘I’m not an ice skater, but I could be if I wanted to’. 

Simon put his fist to his forehead and closed his eyes. “I am, actually. I’ve no idea why I said that. Sorry.” 

Aux Cord laughed, eyebrows knit, eyes still narrowed in confusion. “No . . . it’s okay, you’re good. I’ll make some copies with you. Wait. No.” His smile widened. “Watch you make copies? I’m not one hundred percent sure what the set-up is here . . . “

“Simon,” Simon supplied, because he assumed (hoped) that Aux Cord was reaching for his name.

“Yeah. Simon. I know. It’s on your shirt.”

“Oh,” Simon frowned, glancing down at the white thread over his breast pocket that did in fact spell out his name. “Thanks . . .” He assumed (hoped) that he’d get a name, and he got one. 

“Kieren. I was told I’d also be getting a shirt. Haven’t yet, though.” Kieren smiled as though he’d made a joke, so Simon laughed as though he’d made a joke. 

He really _was_ a nice looking person, Kieren. Just objectively. Especially if you were someone who tended to think of nice looking people as divided into two sorts: the sort that smiles all the time, so that the smile becomes part of the reason they’re nice looking, and the sort that smiles so infrequently that it takes you off guard when they do. Kieren was the second sort. 

Simon thought all of this and, in the process, forgot to speak. He shook his head like that would clear it. 

“Oh. Right. Well . . .” Simon held out a hand. “Hi, then.” 

“Hey.” 

They shook hands over the computer monitor.

“So, I’ll see you in twenty minutes?” Simon asked. 

“Sure,” Kieren smiled. “I’ll be here.” 

“And I’ll be there,” Simon hitched a thumb back toward his desk. “Right over there.”

 

 

Simon made his way back There (Desk #7, IntelCom, Roarton, Lancashire, 53.8000° N, 2.6000° W), threw himself into his chair and wheeled himself forward until he was flush with his desk and could properly slump over his keyboard. He set his forehead on his forearms and his closed his eyes, but he could hear Amy’s chair squealing closer. 

She sidled up to him, ducked down to put her face close to his. “So?” 

“I’m never saying anything ever again. Ever,” he said into the wood of his desk. “These are my last words.” 

Amy snorted. “So ‘these are my last words’ are your last words? That is so typical. Why are you such a square?” 

“I’m not - !” 

“Now your last words are 'I’m not'? Even more square. Double square.” 

“Seriously. Please stop.” 

“What, Simon? Drama Queen, it couldn't have been that bad. You’re quite good with people! I mean, usually. I mean, ish.” Amy pulled back from him a bit, and her tone became more sympathetic. “Anyway, anything come of it then?” She nodded her head over to where Kieren was cautiously eyeing his keyboard. 

Simon raised his eyes to meet hers. “I asked him if he wanted to meet me in the copy room – "

Her mouth dropped open. 

“To make some copies.”

Her mouth closed. 

“ _Mr. Monroe_ ” she gasped. “Didn’t think you were the committing type. You should make him some _color_ copies. You know, really pull out all the stops, spare no expense.” Then, clocking his expression, her act dropped and she hit his shoulder companionably. Simon let the blow sway him in his seat. 

“Hey,” Amy said, waiting to continue until he met her eyes, which he did, reluctantly. “You’re _fine_. Knock ‘em dead.” 

 

As it turns out, there are very few things to talk about in a copy room that don't involve 1) the other person in that copy room or 2) the paper in that copy room. The former has generally proven more interesting, though it's reasonable to assume that a case has, at some point, been made for the latter. There were about 400 copies to be made and posted around (primers for some new, building-wide cloud program that would save paper; they were, apparently, big on recycling here, less so on irony), and the paper _was_ orange, which in conversational terms was . . . something at least . . . 

("Orange," Simon said, pulling one piece from his fat armful of paper and presenting it for thoughtful review. )

(". . . Yep," Kieren reviewed, thoughtfully.) 

That line of inquiry was quickly exhausted. But after a few false starts and silences where Simon stood stiffly over the printer and Kieren decided there were new things to learn about his own shoelaces -- 

("So, where'd you learn all this computer stuff?")

("School.")

("Right. Cool.")

\-- they began to speak. 

Kieren told Simon about his family (abridged version: “They sort of ignored it all. Didn’t go well.”), and about how that had been hard, and about how he needed this job so he could finally get away. Even if he didn’t plan on doing this particular job forever. 

And Simon told Kieren about his family (abridged version: “I sort of left. Didn’t go well.”), and about how that had been hard, and about how he needed this job so he could stay away. Even if he didn’t plan on doing this particular job forever. 

Kieren, it seemed, was interested in the job Simon planned on doing forever, and if he wasn’t interested, he was good at acting it. So Simon explained - how it was all hiding behind usernames and code, and not getting paid, but he hoped they were doing a good thing. 

“I hope you are, too,” Kieren said; noncommittal, sure, but they _had_ only know each other for about two hours. 

“That might be why I’m like this,” said Simon, without thinking, because he really wasn’t used to talking for this long, out loud, to anyone. He grit his teeth through the 10 seconds where his brain insisted that he go silent, and continued, “I mean, it might be why I seem so . . . not right, speaking to you. Sometimes, I think what I do makes it hard for me to actually talk to people. It’s easy enough through a screen. You can be a different person.”

“I get that.” 

“It’s weird. Sometimes I feel like two different people.”

“Me too.” 

They looked down at their shoes in unison, unsmiling, Simon very aware that he’d brought the mood down, and that, by the same token, it was his job to bring it back up. 

“Though: benefits,” he clapped his hands together, purposefully shifting the tone of his voice. “I will say that - you know those raffles that websites do sometimes? The one’s where it’s like ‘click here and win’? Yeah, turns out “random winners” don’t have to be so random if you know what you’re doing. Amazon’s paid for just about everything in my apartment, not that they’ll ever know. It’s great. I’ll show you how to do it some time.”

“You should,” Kieren said. His eyes and voice were oddly serious; both threw Simon off balance. 

Suddenly nervous for three reasons (the first being that he'd just spent a solid hour reciting a heavily edited version of his autobiography to a stranger, the second being that the printer was starting to cool down, and the third being completely irrational), Simon began to speak, to excuse himself before he ruined this fragile _whatever_ between them. “I should – ”

Kieren grabbed his shirtfront and kissed him. 

Simon did nothing. Well, he felt sort of dizzy, and he remained standing, which he would after the fact consider an accomplishment. 

Kieren took his hands away and stepped back.

“Sorry. Thank you for fixing my computer,” he said. He nodded once before slipping out the half-closed door of the copy room, not looking back.

. . . . 

. . . .

Wow. Okay. Count to ten. 

Simon felt himself level out – his balance re-centered, his heart stopped pounding, and the rest of his parasympathetic nervous system got some perspective. He still wasn’t sure what to do with his hands, or mouth, but his eyes scanned the room: white linoleum cabinets, grey linoleum counter top, someone standing in the corner with a coffee mug in one hand and a blue stack of papers in the other. The someone gaped.

“Hey, Pablo.”

“. . .” said Pablo, mouth still open slightly.

“. . .” said Simon, mouth still sort of wondering why what had just happened had, in fact, just happened. 

For a few seconds, Pablo’s face reddened and reddened and there was silence. Then came the snap. “I hate that you work here." 

Simon made an affronted sound and began to speak. He was cut off. 

“No, I really do. I hate it,” Pablo punched forward with his coffee mug. “I go home at night; I tell my family about you and the other one, the woman. I suppose there’s a third now, judging by whatever the hell just happened here. Don’t know what that was. Don’t really care, except that I’m trying to make some copies for my _job_ , and you two’ve been in here for about an hour and a half!”

“Sorry,” Simon hung his head. 

“No! Whatever. So I finally decide, fuck it, I’m just going to go make these copies. Maybe they went out the copy room’s secret back entrance! That sounds like the sort of weird, TV type _thing_ Simon and Co. would do! But no! Not my luck. Turns out you’re still here, and you’ve bagged the intern! And I’m happy for you, Simon! I am! Sort of! It’s just that I don’t care! I don’t care about your personal life! Like, at all! And, since you and your friend talk so god damn loud, I’m constantly hearing about it! And in this case, I’m experiencing it alongside you! For years, Simon! How long? How long until our perspectives start to mesh and we become one person?! How long? I don’t know.”

Pablo was breathing heavily, a sweaty hand clutching at the handle of his coffee mug. A beat of silence, broken only by the last of Simon’s copies scratching out of the machine and a final, mechanical sigh from the printer. 

“So . . ." Simon bit the inside of one of his cheeks. He slid his warm copies out of the tray as nonchalantly as possible, opened the top hatch to retrieve the original paper, all while maintaining eye contact with Pablo. He waved limply, said, “So, I have to go. I think I might have a date later.”

“I did not ask and do not care.”

“Alright. Thanks.”

“Please find literally _anywhere_ else to be." 

“. . .”

“. . .”

“Yes. Yeah, good." Simon blinked. He turned sideways so he could squeeze out the door. He was only a few steps away when, from inside the copy room, he heard Pablo wrench open the top hatch of copier. There was a horrible, crunching sound and a plastic thud, like the hatch had bounced off its hinge and slammed shut. Pablo swore. 

It gave Simon something else to smile about as he made his way back across the room, though, to be honest, the strange outburst had barely registered. Back in their corner of the office, Amy was waiting for him with a measured grin she could turn either consoling or congratulatory as the situation demanded. 

“Statistically improbable?” she asked, one elbow resting on her desk, chin resting on her fist. 

“Statistically improbable,” said Simon.

Amy smiled wider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pablo is my self insert b/c I, too, don't understand how people in Office AUs get away with talking so much in workplace environments. Thanks for reading - you guys are troopers.


End file.
